Surrounded by those you care about most only to feel incredibly alone in the midst of it all Take a bite of the magic food and feel your body relaxFeel your mind fuse with the THC that is now in useYou are the you that you always wanted to be and all it took was a little hit of ****Take a puff and feel the smoke bite at your lungsAs you inhale what you consider to be sweet freedom you exhale the blissful self medication of narcotic releaseYou 'll laugh and join in a crowd to feel alive.Now ask yourself thisAre you proudProud of how you have to use smoke clouds to enjoy the beautiful world around youAlonethe thing I hate to be the mostnow look at mesoberlonelybrokenThe person I want to be is goneNow all I want to feel is the chemical melodies of the song that is my highI want to tell those I love goodbye and not feel guilty that I want to dieTell them that when I get high I feel as close to death as everTell them to let me betell them I set myself free.

Made this when I was really upset because I started smoking ****, got over it though...

We've grown together, no doubtWe hang out in the clouds and clouds roll outI hold her close as she ignites my passions and dreamsShe takes me from all the drama it seemsSome may criticise but don't realizeWe're made for each otheryou can see it in the eyes

The temperature in the room is highThick, sweaty bodies grind to the rhythmAs music swells like smoke comingFrom the joints being passed aroundLaughter fills the air as full as the cupsThat clutter her bedroom, like the friendsOn her bed, sharing the bench in front of the keyboard,Making out in her closet, and behind her *****Shower curtain. She’s faded, just like the rest of them,But through the clouds of smoke and conversation,The date circled in black on her calendarReminds her of the day her mother fell to her kneesIn the middle of the grocery store screaming,Like the ****** girl who hears a funny jokeIn the background, after getting a phone callThat would rewrite the date, no longer a stoner’s holiday,But the same day as seven years before, when her mother,Once in the car, continued hyperventilating, no passerbyStopping to help, or to ask the twelve-year-old girlWhat was wrong, like her friends who try to do soNow as she stands and picks a picture off the shelfHer aunt in it, alive, and kissing her cheek. /Are you okay?/A hand comforts her shoulder. /I think I’ll smoke a little more./She loses the staring contest and hands the picture back to the shelf.